


Forward, Though I Cannot See

by too many stars to count (imagined_away)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Kink Meme, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sherlock adopts a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagined_away/pseuds/too%20many%20stars%20to%20count
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock adopts a kitten and jumps to conclusions, John is very sure he's not moving out (though he seems to be the only one) and a certain cat will not stand for being ignored. In the end, everything gets put right - if not quite back where it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forward, Though I Cannot See

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=125049839#t125049839) at the kink meme.

_Still you are blessed, compared with me!_

_The present only touches you:_

_But oh! I backward cast my eye,_

_On prospects dreary!_

_And forward, though I cannot see,_

_I guess and fear!_

_\- To a Mouse, Robert Burns_

 

“Wiggins,” Sherlock refrained from sighing but only just, “You don’t have a cat and yet you seem to be in possession of an entire litter of kittens.” He lifted an eyebrow expectantly.

“Three kittens, is not a ‘litter’.” She closed the flaps on the box protectively as the wind picked up. “Besides two of ‘em already have homes to go to. I’m just holding on to the little guys for a few more hours. All that’s left is the little lady here. What else was I supposed to do, Mister Holmes?” Wiggins asked suddenly, with a challenging look Sherlock knew better than to answer, “Drown ‘em in the Thames like rats? Poor things already had a rough start, least I could do was get them settled.”

Sherlock peered into the box at what was obviously the runt as she nosed her way under one of her brothers, “Haven’t the smallest ones become preferable lately?” It had always appeared so from the endless number of cat videos John watched.

“Yeah but people are still weird ‘bout black cats. Say they’re bad luck and all that rot. Look at the little thing, as if she could ruin a person’s day. But people will be superstitious now won’t they?”

“Rubbish,” Sherlock muttered. He pulled a fifty pound note from his pocket. “Very well, I’ll take her,” he said stuffing the money into Wiggins hand - it’d be cold the next few days and the network was useless to him if his top people froze to death - and scooped the kitten out of the box. She protested loudly as he wrapped her in his scarf and carefully tucked her into a coat pocket.

Wiggins eyed him warily, fingering the money, “You sure ‘bout that Mister Holmes? I can’t be taking her back if your flatmate don’t like her. They won’t let her into the shelter with me.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Sherlock said distractedly, searching on his phone for a nearby veterinary clinic. The last thing he wanted was to bring fleas into his flat. “Make sure you get into one of those shelters as soon as the other two are picked up. They’ll fill up fast tonight.”

“No worries, I’ve got a place all set for the night.” Wiggins assured him with a toothy grin.

 : : :

Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how John would feel about the kitten but that was fine because what he _was_ entirely sure of was that John wouldn’t be at Baker Street for much longer.

For days now John had been hovering anxiously around the flat shooting Sherlock worried looks whenever he thought Sherlock wasn’t looking. (Foolish. He should know by now that Sherlock was _always_ looking.) John hadn’t thrown out any of his experiments (he’d have found out by now and John was never shy about anything he considered to be both hazardous and occupying their kitchen table), his sister was the same as ever and there’d been a steady supply of both locum work and cases lately. The only reasonable explanation Sherlock could think of was that John had been gearing up to announce he was moving out of Baker Street and in with a girlfriend.

Bad enough that Sherlock’s near non-existent libido should choose to take a liking to someone who clearly wasn’t interested in him. To have John abandoning the flat and him for someone else was intolerable.

Who the girlfriend was Sherlock had no idea. John had gone to an extra effort lately to keep his dating life a secret - even more evidence he was serious about whoever she was. Sherlock hated her.

He could already see how it would go. John would promise to come along on cases still and swear nothing about their friendship would change, but it would. First he’d stop coming over unless it was during or directly after a case. Sherlock had no interest in pubs nor the people who frequented them. John and Lestrade may be at home in them but he was not and that would cost him precious time with John. Even if he eventually started going they would see how awful he was at it and stop inviting him.

Then John would stop coming over after cases, preferring instead to celebrate a job well done with his lover in their bed. Meanwhile Sherlock would be left to take a lonely cab back to Baker Street where only the skull awaited him. Slowly but surely the number of cases John was available for would dwindle as he became more and more embroiled in his new life and as his girlfriend had less and less patience for John’s odd, creepy friend.

Finally the day would come when John would come on no more cases with him. Then Sherlock would be well and truly back to where he started years ago but now knowing what it was like to have a partner in crime (so to speak) and to be bereft of them.

There were no compelling arguments Sherlock could make against leaving Baker Street (the average human prized little more than regular sex) and so if he wanted a cat to keep him company after John left then he could damn well have one.

 : : :

The people at the animal clinic raised their eyes at the kitten’s name but gave her all her shots. Sherlock scheduled an appointment in a few months time for her to be spayed and then bundled her back into his coat refusing their offer of a carrier.

: : :

When he returned to the flat he was unsurprised to find a bag of cat treats, ‘kitten formula’ cat food (could she not eat regular cat food? Would it hurt her? Clearly research was required), food and water bowls, a self-cleaning litter box and a bag of litter in the sitting room. There were even a few cat toys. Mycroft. Interfering bastard. Well, at least it saved him the trouble of bribing one of the homeless network into doing it for him.

From his pocket the kitten mewled loudly and stuck an outraged paw into the air in a bid for freedom. “Hush.” Sherlock said, gently lifting her from his pocket. He held her up so that they were eye to eye. “None of this meowing business. You’re perfectly fine.” The kitten responded with a half hearted swipe at his face and Sherlock chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”

He set the kitten on the floor, took his coat off, and went about arranging the kittens’ things in the flat. She followed him, still mewling, until he briefly distracted her by putting a small amount of food and water into her bowls. Sherlock had just set up the litter box when she trotted into the bathroom and gave him a haughty look that quite clearly said, _don’t wander off._ She then made use of said litter box while Sherlock sighed in relief. He’d been afraid he was going to have to _train_ her to use it or some such nonsense.

With the kitten established in the flat Sherlock settled at the table to work on one of his experiments. From behind him there was an unimpressed yowl and then a black ball of fur launched itself first onto first an empty chair and then Sherlock himself. He held still for a moment as the kitten draped herself around his shoulders and then gave a small shrug feeling the bundle at his neck shift in response. “As you like,” he muttered. A paw batted at his hair.

 : : :

It was only another twenty minutes or so before John came home. The kitten, still around his shoulders, seemed to be resting from the exhausting ordeal of being adopted. Her tail occasionally brushed at Sherlock’s cheek but otherwise she remained still.

John called a hello but went straight into the kitchen from the landing and immediately set about putting groceries away. Sherlock listened as he carried whatever toiletries he had bought down the hall to the bathroom and silently waited as he noticed the little box.

“Sherlock, why is there some sort of robotic - ” John stopped. Sherlock didn’t have to be looking to know that John was licking his lips. “Are, um, are you aware there’s a cat draped around your shoulders?”

“Her name is Stradivarius, she’s a kitten, and of course I’m aware John how could I not be aware that there is an _animal_ on _my person?”_ Honestly.

“Right.” There was a full fifteen seconds of silence. “Why is there a kitten draped around your shoulders?”

“I assume because she likes it there.” Sherlock said indifferently.

“And why is there a kitten in the flat at all again?” John asked.

_“Stradivarius_ is here because I adopted her.” Sherlock said, finally standing up and turning to face John, moving slowly so that the kitten would remain undisturbed.

“Sherlock why on Earth would you - Stradivarius? You named a bloody cat Stradivarius?” John gaped.

“There’s nothing wrong with her name,” Sherlock said cooly. As if summoned by all the usage of her name, Stradivarius had woken and made a daring leap of off Sherlock’s shoulder before padding across the floor to inspect John. “It’s a fine name.”

“It’s certainly a big name for such a little thing,” John commented, scooping the kitten up to inspect her. “Hullo there, Strad.” She mewled pathetically at him. He chuckled. “Someone’s had a long day, huh?”

“Her name,” Sherlock said primly, “Is not Strad. It’s Stradivarius.”

“But wasn’t Stradivarius a - ”

“Man, yes, of course, the one you’re thinking of was at least, don’t be _boring,_ John. Just because a man happened to have Stradivarius as a _surname_ doesn’t mean it’s barred from females forever. Good lord.”

John looked unimpressed. “But his instruments all had names, didn’t they? Why not pick one of them.”

Sherlock gave him an equally unimpressed look. “Why choose the name of one instrument when I could just use the name of the genius who made them all?”

“Seems fair enough,” John chuckled. “How about a bite to eat, Strad?”

“John - ” Sherlock started.

“Oh, stop. If you can give her a ridiculous name I can give her a nickname. Besides, the best of friends all have nicknames,” he winked at the kitten before setting her down in the direction of the food bowl. Immediately she trotted off, tail in the air.

“I don’t have a nickname,” Sherlock said, aware he sounded more than a bit petulant.

John just laughed at him. “You git, what do you think ‘Consulting Detective’ is then?”

“A job title.”

“It can be both,” John assured him. Sherlock felt a bit mollified. “So, mind telling me why we’ve got a cat suddenly?”

“We do not have a cat.” Sherlock said, wanting to be clear on this. He’d be damned if John took Stradivarius too when he left. “I have a cat.”

John stared at him. “Sherlock, you don’t need to be so possessive. Animals bond with the person who take them home. Just because she sniffed me a bit doesn’t mean she’ll suddenly forget about you.”

“You’re not taking her with you!” Sherlock snapped. Stradivarius wandered back into the sitting room and approached a blanket crumpled on the floor that had fallen from the couch. Slowly, and with great care as if it may attack, she pawed at it.

“Taking her _where?”_ John cried.

“With you when you leave!” Sherlock refrained from adding _with that harpy_ but only just. He knew that it was not only unfair, which wasn’t a real concern, but that John would take offense, which was.

“Leave? Leave where? What do you think I’ll do - take her to work with me?”

“When you move out!” Sherlock snapped. He turned away from John and picked up Stradivarius who was still playing with the blanket. She gave it one last look before snuggling into his arms and purring.

“I’m not moving out!” John said indignantly. “Why would I want - Sherlock will you please _look_ at me.” Sherlock turned still clutching the kitten.  “Right. Okay. Why do you think I’m moving out?”

“It’s obvious,” Sherlock said cooly. It was bad enough that John was moving out, why was he making Sherlock explain it piece by piece?

“Not to me it isn’t!” John protested. “Which seems odd as I’m apparently the one doing the moving.”

Sherlock gave an honest to God growl which sent Stradivarius hissing and spitting out of his arms to the floor where she immediately took refuge under the sofa. “Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock yelled. He peered under the couch and saw two eyes narrowed at him in reproach. “Are you happy now?” He demanded, standing back up.

“How is any of this _my fault?”_ John all but screamed.

“Because you’re moving out and _leaving me here.”_ Sherlock screamed back. John opened his mouth - undoubtedly to protest his innocence again - but Sherlock just kept going. “It’s obvious that you have something you’re want to tell me but are nervous about saying,” he ranted, “In the past three days alone I’ve caught you staring at me for periods of time last longer than forty seconds at least seven different times when you thought I wasn’t paying attention - as if that ever _happens._ So, you want to tell me something,” vaguely he notices Stradivarius slink out from under the couch. “Let’s see what the options are then, shall we?

“One, you’ve thrown away one of my experiments. Not it. I’d have noticed any missing or even disturbed experiments by this point, even if it was one that I was currently in a wait stage with. Two, something has happened to Harry mostly likely due to her addiction. Also not it. You only ever hesitate to mention Harry’s alcoholism on my so-called ‘danger nights’ of which there hasn’t been one for the past three weeks. You’d never have waited this long if Harry needed you either. No, you’re John Watson the caring, protective brother. You’d have been on your way to her house as soon as you’d gotten off the phone with her. Three,” by now Sherlock was ticking them off on his fingers as he went, “You’re dying or otherwise seriously ill. Preposterous. Other than a bit more take-away in our diet than could be considered recommendable, and your pub nights with Stamford or Lestrade, you are the picture of health for a British male in his late thirties. So, John, what does that lead us with? Hmmm?” The kitten meowed plaintively at John’s feet. He looked down at it with an expression that clearly said he could not account for how his life had spun so out of control.

“What it leaves us with,” Sherlock said cooly, “Is the fourth option. You have found a woman, who have cleverly been keeping away from me so as not to have her scared off. Your relationship is going well, so well in fact that you have agreed to move in with her. Now you just need to tell me and then you can be done with it and me.

“Well that’s fine,” Sherlock said picking Stradivarius up from her place at John’s feet. “I don’t need you here, after all. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself without any help. And Stradivarius.” He stroked the kitten’s head and glared at John.

“Sherlock Holmes you are the biggest bloody idiot I’ve ever met.” John said in disbelief. “I’m not moving out you git. And I definitely don’t have a girlfriend. When was I supposed to have met this imaginary girlfriend exactly? I spend all my time with _you,_ you great berk!”

Sherlock gaped and clutched at the kitten in what he hoped was a dignified manner. It was not.

“I’m not moving out Sherlock.” John said more gently. “I’m also not dying, I haven’t touched your experiments, and Harry’s fine the last I heard.”

“But - then - I don’t understand.” Sherlock snapped his mouth shut looking displeased and John softened even more.

“I know you don’t,” he said closing the already-small gap between them. John lifted Stradivarius out for Sherlock’s arms and gently set her down, ignoring her cry of displeasure. “You’re right, I do have something to tell you, and I have been nervous about how’ll you react.

“You see, sometime in the past two years, without meaning to,” John laced his fingers with Sherlock’s, “I seem to have fallen in love with you. An accident, you understand, but not an unhappy one. I was worried you wouldn’t feel the same way but, well, with that hissy fit you just threw about imaginary girlfriends and moving out, I suddenly find myself much less worried.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain in no uncertain terms that he did not throw _hissy fits_ when he was interrupted by John kissing him. The last time Sherlock had kissed anyone was in secondary school and on the whole he had found it horrifically unpleasant.

This was not unpleasant.

This, in fact, was the total opposite of unpleasant.

He was momentarily horrified when John broke away laughing, but the feeling dissolved as he looked down to see a certain cat had taken it upon herself to try crawling John’s trouser legs in a bid for attention. “I see someone doesn’t care for being ignored,” John chuckled, deftly unhooking the kitten’s claw from his clothing and settling her in his arm.

“John I - that is - the sentiment you expressed I - ” Sherlock babbled incoherently, feeling for all the world like they were back in that damn swimming pool again stammering out his thanks.

“Hush,” John said, “I know.” He leaned over and kissed Sherlock again, before pulling away suddenly. “Sorry, let me get this right, did you _buy a cat_ to keep you company once I moved out?”

“I rescued her from an early death on the streets,” Sherlock said haughtily, after a moment of pure panic at how pathetic he may in fact be.

“Mmhm, ‘course you did.” John agreed blithely.

In his arms, Stradivarius purred.


End file.
